


A Route to Love and Other Destinations

by kaguyahime7



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, For a Friend, Modern AU, Romance, ginchy wanted a sequel so yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 03:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16778824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaguyahime7/pseuds/kaguyahime7
Summary: Patrick, a bus, and the woman he fell in love with. A modern Turnadette AU and companion story to “The 7:00 to Poplar”.





	A Route to Love and Other Destinations

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read "The 7:00 to Poplar", I would recommend reading that first. This story will make a lot more sense with that context. Otherwise, enjoy!

It hit Patrick like a bus on a soggy Thursday morning in January, after he shared his umbrella with a beautiful stranger who was waiting for the seven o'clock bus.

Love at first sight, that is.

And she wasn't a beautiful stranger, not any more at least. He finally knew her name after nearly a year spent mustering enough courage to approach her.

Shelagh. He rolled the consonants and sounded out the vowels silently in his head as he meandered towards his practice. He liked the way her name sounded spoken aloud on that densely misty road. He'd lent her the umbrella until tomorrow on a whim. The idea struck him like a bolt of lightning. He hoped the action came off as chivalrous rather than creepy.

He'd first noticed the beautiful stranger—Shelagh, he mentally corrects himself—late last summer. Poplar was a relatively crowded part of the East End, so it wasn't surprising that there would be a person in the community that he hadn't met, despite living there for over a decade. His work as a general practitioner brought in a motley of patients and their ailments, and he managed to see the spectrum of human life from birth to death all under one leaky roof.

His life with Marianne and Timothy was steeped in routine, at least until two years ago, when his picture-perfect life withered into a grayscape of cancer wards, chemotherapy treatments, and stuttering, final breaths. The crumbly, churned earth above Marianne's grave would have frozen over again by now. He and Timothy would have to check the flowers this weekend to make sure they hadn't died from exposure.

A heavy rain starts falling again as he nears the office, just as his creaky old joints predicted earlier. As the cold droplets soak through his coat and shoes, a warm sense of relief washes over him knowing that Shelagh was safe and dry at least. His clothing would dry, Phyllis would scold him for dripping all over the floor like a wet dog, and the day would proceed as any other. The shy smile Shelagh gave him as thanks for his kindness stays with him all the way until he reaches the front door, and he finds himself grinning like a fool while leaving a linear trail of rainwater through the waiting area and into the staff tea room.

“Good morning!” he calls out. The three nurses who comprise the remainder of his staff exchange glances that vary from bemused to mildly irritated at his dripping state.

“For heaven's sake, Doctor Turner, get out of those wet things and into something dry.” Phyllis bounds out of her chair and disappears into his office. “I swear, that man's head would fall off it weren't attached to his head,” she mutters darkly.

“I didn't take you for the polar plunge type,” Valerie jokes. She hands him a steaming mug of coffee and a clean dish towel to run over his hair.

“I'm sure he had a good reason for forgetting his umbrella,” Barbara says kindly.

“Barbara, you're not on probation anymore, you can be honest with your opinions.” Phyllis returns with an armful of mint green medical scrubs and a satisfied smirk.

Patrick squeezes excess water from his coat into the sink. “If you must know, I lent my umbrella to someone from the bus.”

“Making friends on the morning commute?” Barbara asks.

Patrick smiles into his coffee cup. It was possible that the rush of hot, liquid caffeine made his heart pound faster and sent his pulse racing. Or it could be remembering the thirty minutes of standing next to a beautiful woman in a crowded bus on a rainy morning. That phone call from his friend Ted had been completely one-sided, as Patrick could barely concentrate on their conversation with Shelagh standing so close to him. Being so physically close to someone he admired from afar left his nerves and senses tingling long after they parted. He was soaked to the bone in front of his colleagues but nothing, not even the gradual sensation of icy numbness in his feet and hands, could dampen his happiness on this not-so-ordinary day.

“Something like that,” he says, accepting the clothing and heading into his office to change. 

*

Part of him wonders if or how it's possible to love someone so quickly. As January slips into February, he tries—and fails—to dismiss this as anything but simple attraction.

Loving Marianne had been different for him. The longevity of their relationship stretched back to grammar school, when he was a lanky, awkward boy and she laughed at his equally awkward jokes. Marianne Parker always had a place in his heart, even if the origins were platonic thoughts that were carefully nurtured into romantic love. As they grew older, it was almost anticlimactic that their childhood closeness grew into something stronger due to their deep-seated roots. She practically knew him better than he knows himself and they were essentially two sides of the same coin. It wasn't delusional to envision a life with her. It was his reality, one that he wondered about taking for granted after her diagnosis.

As a young, debt-laden physician, he took great pride in his own family's well-being. Patrick could count the number of serious illnesses he had on a single hand. Marianne too seemed the picture of health as they grew together into adulthood. After learning they were expecting a baby, he wore holes in their carpet with his fidgety pacing while she cheerfully knitted enough booties and hats to clothe an army of children. Her swollen belly was an unspoken wish they shared silently, a blessing they dared not question.

And then there was that awful night in January, when the roads were slick and frozen with patches of black ice. Marianne's go-bag, carefully packed and kept next to the front door in case of an emergency, was forgotten when said emergency emerged at two in the morning. Blood—his wife's or his unborn son's—trickled down her thighs as the ambulance swerved and skated uneasily to the hospital. 

Patrick was not a man of faith. His beliefs were mired in the proven arts of science and medicine. How different he was from Marianne, who whispered prayers under her breath as they lay side by side in bed. He attended church services as a favor to her, choosing to bear each sermon as an educational experience and nothing more. Miracles were most definitely out of his colloquial wheelhouse.

It wasn't until after they were swept into a warm, sterile room that he began to question his rigid stance. He thought it supremely ironic that he, as secular as they came, would have a nun serving as the midwife for this birth. One flinty glare from her was enough to erase any misgivings he had about the situation. But the sharp look melted away as the nun prepared Marianne for delivery, cocooning her anxious patient with soft and soothing words, along with a fine cocktail of drugs. A chair was found for Patrick, so he could sit beside Marianne as she crushed his hand during each contraction. A single indignant yowl announced his son's arrival into the world. The nun crowed at the strength of his lungs as she set the baby in Marianne's arms. She murmured a blessing over his wet, squirming form and gave Patrick a hearty clap on the back as congratulations. Dimly, he hears her sternly listing orders to a nurse outside, and catches a glimpse of a sleepy, spectacle-wearing blonde scribbling notes and trying not to yawn.

He swept his hand across the boy's small crest of dark hair and marveled at the sight of his wife and child, wondering if this was the miracle that Marianne gave thanks for each and every night.

Their lives were a series of firsts after that day. Marianne diligently noted all of them in a baby book at first and then scattered the memories in her diary as Timothy grew into a chatty and intelligent child. Timothy's first steps, his first word—which was chip, much to Marianne's dismay—his first lost tooth, his first day of school.

Ten years pass like a dream. Before becoming a parent, he thought the saying about childhood flying by in the blink of an eye was nothing more than a trope. But it truly seemed like just yesterday that Timothy was toddling forward unsteadily, grasping Patrick's fingers with a death grip just like his mother's. Here he was now, quoting facts and passages from Patrick's copies of _The Lancet_ while sneaking Oreos behind Marianne's back.

The axis of their world tilts and spirals out of control on sunny day in spring when Marianne fell while carrying a basket of laundry. She blames her fatigue on a late-night Netflix binge with Patrick and promises to be attentive to her surroundings. Timothy's arrival home from school turns his attentions elsewhere, and he does not notice the look of discomfort as the basket rests against her slightly swollen abdomen.

The days that followed mark another set of firsts that Patrick would come to dread instead of cherish. The first doctor's visit where Marianne confided to her gynecologist about her constant fatigue and pelvic pain. The first operation that confirmed something poisonous was spreading through her body. The first time words such as “terminal” and “inoperable” were spoken aloud. The first time Marianne cried in his arms and told him she was terrified of the future. The last time she told him that she loved him and Timothy.

It's mundane things that kept him grounded after her death and he gratefully threw himself back into a routine. Waking Timothy for school, packing lunches, bedtime reading, lectures about balancing sweets and oral hygiene, he took on Marianne's duties without a second thought. He did so not as a morbid adherence to her memory, but because he didn't know how to do things any different. He finds comfort in the rote bits of his life. Change made him feel itchy and restless. His heart, like any other muscle, atrophies from disuse.

He verily expects dust and debris to scatter from his heart after that electrifying moment when Shelagh agreed to share his umbrella.

Hope, like a tiny bird taking flight for the first time, spreads its wings and soars within him again. 

**

Not too long ago, the thought of loving another woman after Marianne was unfathomable. He could query the question of “How soon is too soon to love again?” in a hundred different search engines and wade through just as many different answers. Maybe he was using grief as a lazy crutch to avoid heartbreak again. He wasn't getting any younger and wondered if he had the inner strength needed to be in a healthy relationship. And then there was the fear of putting out into the universe that he was ready to find love once more. The crippling anxiety of lying alone in a bed that still carried the faintest trace of Marianne's scent, a heady mix of honeysuckle, baking soda, and clean linen, remained a strong presence for him. No, he was not prepared in the least to be anything other than a grieving widower for some time.

He couldn't pinpoint the specific day that things changed. For one thing, he certainly didn't wake up one morning and confidently declare that he would start taking public transit to work. The idea stewed in his subconscious for weeks. One friend, and then another, as well as the people he worked with, suggested taking the bus to work as a way to branch out socially. Grieving could be healthy, they reasoned, but not in the bleak, unproductive way he chose to express it. He was suffering, Timothy was suffering, but the people who meant the most to him outside of his immediate family refused to let him disappear into sorrow.

At first he rebuffed the notion. His car was perfectly capable of taking him to and from work every day. Phyllis reasoned that no one was saying he had to sell his vintage MG. But the car was a relic and could not serve as a commuter vehicle indefinitely. Not to mention the environmental cost of driving such a gas guzzler, as Valerie and Barbara noted. Taking public transit during the week was a simple, cost-effective way to solve two problems with one solution—he would save money and wear on his beloved car, and at the same time force himself to interact with other people again.

Patrick first noticed Shelagh on a muggy morning in July. Even at an early hour, the air surrounding the bus stop was heavy and thick with the grimy smell of car exhaust and human sweat. The humidity felt thick enough to slice through with a sword. Not that he had the energy to perform such a feat. Frankly, as he fanned himself with an old copy of _The Lancet_ , he wanted nothing more than to lie supine across a glacier with an iced coffee in either hand.

His refusal to believe in fateful encounters ended abruptly that morning. It could only be called a coincidence, or the serendipitous luck of a man who thoroughly denied that he wanted to fall in love again, that he would glance over at precisely the right moment to see her reading _The Lancet_ as well. The exact same issue, in fact, that was currently wilting in his sweating palm.

Perhaps it was the heat of the morning affecting his already exhausted brain. Or it could have been the glimmer of sunlight in the smoggy summer sky that turned her hair into a shining golden wave. Maybe it was when she turned at the same time as him and met his gaze with a shy smile. The look only lasted a moment, but it was enough to stir _something_ inside him again.

It just took seven months to do something about it. 

***

Their thirty minute ride together becomes one of the best parts of his day. His morning doesn't truly begin until he sees her smile or trademark blue scrubs and cranberry-red cardigan.

Shelagh makes him feel at ease in a way that is achingly similar to Marianne. One could call it charisma or innate charm, but either way, he feels like the luckiest man in the world just to spend an all-too-brief period of time together. 

He wants to know more about her, to drown in personality quirks and mundane details. Is she an early riser or a night owl? Does she cut the crusts off her sandwiches or leave the bread slices wholly intact? Is there a chance she know that the very sight of her is as breathtaking to him as a sunrise?

On a blustery day in March, while they discuss the effects of the Zika virus epidemic in the Americas, he is constantly distracted by the pretty flush in her cheeks as she emphasizes a point about preventative measures for expecting mothers. A few strands of hair have escaped from her tightly-bound ponytail and cling to the back of her slightly sweating neck. Her glasses slide a bit in the humid bus, and he forces himself to not touch her face and push them back up. A passing streetlamp briefly alights on the golden up-sweep frames and creates the illusion of a shooting star for the briefest moment.

“Patrick?” She blinks at him in confusion. Of course he would be caught mooning over her good looks like an idiot.

“I'm sorry, could you repeat that last part?”

She smiles placidly at him. “I was only asking your opinion about the recent cases in the United States. Do you think their CDC is handling the matter appropriately?”

His mind is completely blank. There were probably statistics and other forms of data he could rattle off. There were certainly journal articles and carefully monitored studies he could cite. They all fail to materialize and the only thing he can think to do is change the conversation to something that requires significantly less brain power.

“Er, speaking of mothers, are you doing anything for Mothering Sunday?”

Her bright expression dims slightly.

“I hadn't given much thought to the holiday. Actually, I lost my mother when I was very young, so it's been a rather long time since I celebrated the occasion.”

Oh dear, sweet Lord. If only the windows on the bus opened wider so he could throw himself out and reap the punishment he richly deserves for bringing up such a painful memory.

Always a quick study, she notices the clear guilt on his face immediately. “Children are more resilient than you think. I don't spontaneously combust when the topic of mothers comes up,” she says quickly, trying to recapture their previously upbeat mood. “In fact, I do plan on spending the day with someone who is rather like a mother to me.”

Bless this woman and her ability to salvage a situation. Patrick breathes a sigh of relief as their conversation moves along without any further potholes.

“Are you doing anything with Timothy?”

Patrick's son was one of Shelagh's favorite conversation topics. After the Valentine's Day incident, she was very interested to hear more stories about his wayward offspring. He was grateful for her interest, especially because it came from someone who didn't automatically sanitize her words when it came to topics like grief and trauma. If anything, now he knew she had a particular expertise in the same precarious situation as his son.

“We'll probably have brunch with my mother-in-law and Timothy will talk her ear off about the latest in Marvel publishing.”

“Oh, I'm sure that's not the case,” she giggles.

“I'll be grateful for the distraction, in any case. He has a project for Cubs that I need to finish planning and I haven't had time to sit down and finalize anything,” he says tiredly. “It's for their Arts and Crafts patch, and poor Tim drew the short straw because I'm supposed to deliver their presentation.”

“Will you have them drawing comic book panels? That seems like it would match his interests nicely.”

He groans and throws up his hands in frustration. “That's a brilliant idea. Mine is so stupidly simple.”

“Surely it can't be that bad,” she chides.

“I was going to teach them origami,” he mumbles, suddenly self-conscious about what she will think about his old-fashioned ideas. “That'll seem so boring to a generation who doesn't remember a time before Wi-fi and smartphones.”

“But I think that's a lovely idea,” she gushes. “My friend Cynthia helped a patient fold a thousand cranes during her leukemia treatment. We have the whole thing displayed at the nurse's station, and it gets compliments from everyone. Origami will teach them patience and the joy of making something magical with just some paper and your own two hands.”

Patrick nods slowly. Her words of encouragement are just the remedy for soothing his nerves.

“An origami animal might actually work. I don't know how to do anything complicated like a tiger, but perhaps an amphibian would catch their attention? I do know the steps to fold a paper frog.”

He glances at his watch and the deadlocked vehicles in front of their bus. It appears they will be stuck on this road for a while, perhaps the right amount of time to practice his origami act? He's known Shelagh for barely three months, yet he trusts her and her opinion completely.

“Could we practice? I've got some paper in my briefcase and it looks like we're stuck in traffic for a bit.”

“I haven't done arts and crafts since grammar school,” she says happily, rubbing her hands together in an endearingly charming manner. “Let's give it a go, _sensei_.”

His ego basks in her praise like a lizard in the sun. A lesser man might see the exercise as an excuse to touch her hands an obscene amount, but he is exceedingly careful to only correct her folds and creases when strictly necessary. She is an apt learner, he discovers, and nearly crows with pride when she finishes the final step in record time. The bus resumes normal speed as they examine her creation's springy green head and legs, marveling together at the simple novelty of a paper frog.

Later, after they disembark and go their separate ways, Patrick takes a moment to prepare his second—or perhaps third—cup of coffee that morning. He insisted she keep the frog, thinking it would be a little bit of fun to share with her colleagues and patients. His heart hopped erratically like the paper amphibian's real-life counterpart as she gingerly placed it in her bag and jogged off to the hospital.

While waiting for the coffee-maker to percolate and fill his chipped “World's Best Dad” mug, he fiddles with a stray scrap of paper on the table. His fingers, still nimble and quick from the earlier lesson, begin to fold and smooth a shape without much conscious thought. The comforting, tart scent of his caffeinated brew fills the room as he presses the final corner into place.

He tucks the small paper heart into his jacket pocket, hoping to someday have enough courage to give it the woman who unknowingly carried the real one with her.

****

Daylight extends further into the evening hours as Patrick ticks off each day on the kitchen wall calendar. He turns the page to another month and marvels at how quickly the year has gone by. As a cool breeze wafts in through an open window, he thinks of the other changes that the fine weather has brought him. The first one that comes to mind is Shelagh's decision to forgo her thick winter sweaters and let him sneak glimpses at her nicely toned forearms in the mornings. Like her, his wardrobe changed from bulky outwear to rolled-up shirt sleeves. He knew it was important to get a bit of vitamin D exposure now that the seasons were changing, but he also fretted about blinding poor Shelagh with his ghastly pale arms. And then there was that change in the way she styled her hair. Marianne used to tease him for failing to notice subtle differences she made in her appearance. It was one thing not to notice when Marianne cut an inch off her dark brown locks or altered the hairline so it favored the right side of her face. But when Shelagh arrived one morning with her hair gently cascading around her shoulders, rather than neatly bound back in a practical ponytail, he knew they reached a turning point with each other.

He laughs at the missed opportunity for a terrible pun about letting one's hair down. Alas, he'll need to find another time to use that zinger.

“Dad?”

Patrick closes his eyes and tries to conjure one of Marianne's prayers for patience and nonviolence towards one's own offspring. This was the fourth time his son's voice reverberated through their residence tonight.

“Daaaaaad?”

The first time he wanted a glass of water. The second request was to dispose of a terrifyingly large spider nestled in the corner of his bedroom. The third summons was to get him another pillow because the one he had was too flat.

“DAAAAAAD!”

He abandons the calendar in a huff and marches to Timothy's room. A stern lecture for his erstwhile son is loaded and ready to fire. Upon entering the bedroom, he trips over a pile of clean clothes that Timothy was supposed to fold and put away three nights ago. Patrick's expression darkens dramatically as he untangles his foot from a sweatshirt and mismatched set of socks.

“You know,” Patrick begins tightly. “There are some animals that leave their young exposed to the elements when they become too much of nuisance.”

Timothy, for his part, looks the slightest bit contrite at Patrick's thunderous gaze. As Patrick flicks the light switch off and turns to leave, Timothy guffaws and points at Patrick's recently mended sweater. His pajamas rustle like fabric leaves as he scurries to the foot of his bed and yanks Patrick back.

“When did _you_ learn how to sew?” he gapes, awkwardly trying to examine the neatly sewn button while the garment is still on his father. After a beat, he grins smugly and flops back in self-satisfaction. “I bet you had Miss Gilbert fix the button again. She's too nice to tell you 'no'.”

Patrick straightens the rumpled bit of poly-cotton blend self-consciously. “Actually, I had a friend sew it for me.”

Timothy blinks at him, clearly surprised. “Since when do you have friends?”

Patrick dives and ruffles his son's hair mercilessly. “You're dangerously close to sleeping outside tonight!” he shouts. Timothy squirms and tries to pull away, but Patrick holds him tight until peals of laughter loosen his grasp at last.

They tumble back and lie side-by-side on the coverlet. Patrick absently fingers some of the loose threads. It had been three years since he braved the holiday shopping crowds with Marianne to buy this specific set of Iron Man bedding for Timothy. It made him sad, in a strange, existential way, that the blanket was intact for such a short time.

“I met her on the bus.” Patrick props himself up unsteadily with an elbow. “Her name is Shelagh, and she was the one who saved your bacon on Valentine's Day.”

Timothy flinches for the briefest moment, barely long enough to discern that something was bothering him. Before Patrick can probe further, Timothy's face eases back into his trademark toothy grin.

“So it's been working out then, taking the bus? I thought you didn't like the whole relying on other people thing.”

Timothy's comment is sheathed in casualness, but Patrick detects an undercurrent of confusion as well. His son was never one to be blissfully ignorant of what went on around him. In was during one of their rare heart-to-hearts when Timothy soberly commented about having to be more grown-up now that it was just the two of them, that Patrick imparted the necessity of learning to be independent. The unspoken conclusion, of course, was that one day Timothy would be on his own.

“What's she like?”

Patrick Turner was many things. A father and a physician, of course, but those were roles that did not require one to wax rhapsodic about their feelings. He barely scraped by in the literature and poetry courses at university years ago, and years later, he relied on Marianne to distill such prose in a form that even someone like him, who had the romantic sentiments of a rock, could understand.

He recalls how Shelagh adjusts her glasses when trying to emphasize an opinion. Then there's the startling blueness of her eyes that remind him of the flowers Marianne liked to grow in their front window box. And the soft brush of her skin against his when she reaches over to pull the cable for their stop. And of course, the easy smile that crosses her face when they settle into their regular seats every morning.

Timothy looks at Patrick questioningly.

“She's...just a friend,” he says finally, switching off the bedside lamp and leaving Timothy to his own conclusions. 

*****

“You did what?!”

The synchronized screeching by his three nurses causes Patrick to topple out of his chair. Phyllis, Barbara and Valerie all descend into incomprehensible chattering about his lack of sensitivity and wondering if there were remedial classes available for tact.

Grumbling under his breath about sudden loud noises not being good for his heart, he pulls himself off the grubby tile and shuffles to the sink to rinse out his coffee mug. Maddeningly, his fatigue would have been more justified if there had been an emergency, but it had just been a very long day that taxed his mind and body to its limits. His attempt to review a few charts and down his fifth cup of coffee before leaving has rapidly deteriorated into a chaotic guilt trip. He's so tired, in fact, that he doesn't hear Phyllis sneak up from behind and yank the mug from his hands.  
  
“I'll see to that, Doctor,” she says shortly. “You go get your lashing from the girls like a good schoolboy.”

He makes a face at her, the one that typically emerged when he was disciplined for talking out of turn at grammar school. A crumpled, chagrined sort of expression that looked equal parts pitiful and confused about his transgressions.

“Go on,” she says mercilessly, shooing him away from the sink and back to the table.

“Honestly, we thought you were better trained than that,” Valerie mutters. “What must poor Shelagh have been thinking when you ditched her for your neighbor lady?”

“I didn't ditch her,” he replies, sinking into his previously vacated chair. “And I was just being neighborly to Magda.”

Valerie and Barbara immediately scrape their chairs towards him to prevent a quick escape. He buries his head in his heads as they murmur disapprovingly at him.

“Fine, you abandoned Shelagh without an explanation,” Valerie suggests.

“You lot are being a bit harsh,” Phyllis calls over her shoulder. “You should give the accused a chance to explain himself before locking him in the dungeon.”

He gestures halfheartedly at her. “That's ever so helpful, thank you.”

“Have you made any kind of amends?” Barbara asks. “Like did you get her some chocolates that spell out 'Sorry, I'm a dense bloke?'”

Valerie snickers into her tea.

“It all got sorted out the next day,” he insists. “We had a lovely discussion about my ulcer book and she even laughed at my 'gut-clencher' joke.”

Dead silence is the only response he gets from any one of them. Valerie is the first to crack. She slaps the table with one hand and clutches her abdomen with the other.

“You've got to marry this woman.” She struggles to get the words out in between choking snorts laughter. “If nothing else because she shares your predilection for puns.”

Phyllis stands with her back to sink and dries the coffee mug with an old tea towel. She winks once at Patrick, who blushes madly in reply.

“This is all very sweet and endearing,” Phyllis states. “It does raise an obvious question though. With all that you two have in common, why haven't you asked her out yet? You could ask her to take tea with you.”

“I don't like tea,” he replies sulkily.

“Just get coffee then!” Valerie shrieks.

“Who hasn't asked someone out?”

Timothy hovers at the doorway, a curious smile drawn across his lips. Immediately, panic floods through Patrick, thinking his son might have overheard the gossip. But then his attention is quickly drawn to a damp paper towel across Timothy's forearm.

“Timothy! What happened!”

He rushes over and gingerly inspects the wound. Approximate five centimeter laceration, likely caused by contact with a sharp object or rough surface, no indication of subcutaneous penetration, he thinks.

“We were spinning around during recess,” Timothy explains, chucking the paper towel into the trash.

“And school let you leave? Somebody should have come with you.” Marianne would have handled this better, he knows. She would've been there when the dismissal bell rang to walk him home and see to the injury immediately.

Timothy kicks a chair leg absently and scoffs. “I told them I knew how to get here. You're always at work." 

“What if I was with a patient?” Patrick says tightly, trying to recall if he kept a first-aid kit in the staff break room.

“Is everything all right, Doctor?”

Barbara, who frequently wore her heart on her sleeve, was the peacemaker among his staff. She excelled with mediating strife among patients and calming tense situations, which were two of the many reasons he hired her last year.

“They just sent him here,” Patrick says disapprovingly. “Why can't they deal with that at school? It's only a graze. They can't even offer a sticking plaster these days?”

Timothy adjusts his book-bag and stares at the floor, as if mesmerized by the turquoise and yellow tile pattern. Valerie can see the cogs turning in his head, weighing all possible means of escaping this suddenly awkward situation. She pops over to him and places a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Spinning, eh? Trying to break a few bones in the name of science?”

He grins sheepishly. “We were trying to break the sound barrier using the roundabout.”

Patrick smacks his forehead in disbelief. “Now you want to study science,” he mutters.

Valerie chortles at Patrick's reaction. “I think we're going to need a scrub-up and a bandage, Tiny Tim.”

Patrick taps the stack of patient files thoughtfully and cocks his head at Timothy. “Will you be all right with Nurse Dyer while I finish some paperwork?”

Timothy nods in the affirmative and shoots Valerie a grateful smile.

“You're very kind, Nurse Dyer,” Patrick says, sincerity clear from his tone. Valerie waves the compliment off and escorts Timothy out of the room.

“Let's get you sat down and we'll have it fixed up in a jiffy,” she says cheerily. They head into a vacant examination room together. Tim walks straight to the sink as Valerie assembles bandages and antibiotic ointment on the counter. He hisses as the warm water mixes with loose gravel and torn skin. She's known the boy for five years now, and treats him with the same mix of teasing and affection as she does her own younger sister.

“Gotta be more careful, Tiny Tim,” she teases. “I know you fancy those superheroes but they, unlike you, have a healing factor to keep them ship-shape.”

“Actually, I prefer to see it as a perfect opportunity,” he replies nonchalantly. “Either you or Miss Gilbert would do quite nicely for this kind of reconnaissance.”

“Now where did you learn that kind of bourgie talk?” she jokes.

He smirks as she spreads the gooey ointment with a gloved hand. “I want you to tell me about Dad's new bus friend.”

Valerie blanches, and then color floods her face as she knocks the bandage off the counter in a fluster. Swearing quietly, she rummages around the first-aid kit for another one.

“So you thought I'd be the easy mark, eh? Well, you can't break me that easily, Tiny Tim,” she says glibly, hoping to avert his interest.

He rolls his eyes and sighs loudly. “I've only overheard little bits about her appearance and all I know is that she gets off at the same stop as Dad,” he complains, “Whenever I ask for more details, he gets all weird and dreamy for a second and changes the subject.”

“That definitely sounds about right,” Valerie chuckles. “I'll never forget how obscenely cheery he was on that day in January, soaked to the skin and frozen like an ice lolly because he lent her his umbrella. I haven't seen him that happy in...”

She trails off awkwardly, as if suddenly aware of the person at the other end of the conversation. Timothy smooths the nylon adhesive on his arm and shrugs. “You can say it. He hasn't been happy since Mummy died. It's true.”

Valerie frowns and kneels next to him. “Hey,” she says gently. “It's okay for you and your Dad to smile again. Your Mum was a heck of a lady, and I know for a fact that she wouldn't want her two best guys to be gloomy forever.”

She gives him a one-armed hug and socks his shoulder playfully.

“I will tell you one thing about her, though. She seems to make your dear old Dad happier than a kid at Christmas, and it's nice to see him that way again.”

******

Shelagh seems pleasantly surprised at Patrick's shiny new bit of technology on a humid Tuesday in August. A rare summer shower forces them back under his large golf umbrella, but Patrick is silently grateful for the pretense of huddling together to stay dry. He doesn't dare risk getting the new iPad wet. Frankly, he'd rather get hit by a bus then let the birthday present from his staff be damaged in any way.

“Well, someone is trying to move into the twenty-first century,” she teases. “I hope you won't be leaving me for one of those self-driving cars that Google is testing in California.”

“Wild goats couldn't keep me away,” he jabs back.

She gasps and pretends to be wounded by his remark. A few weeks ago, he saw her staring at a new flyer posted to their stop. He'd never seen her look so pale as in that moment. Curious, he fumbled for his reading glasses to get a better look at the scrap of paper that made her seem so nervous.

Surprisingly, it was a cheery-looking advertisement for the grand-opening of a yoga studio. Barbara spoke highly of the activity and encouraged patients who were looking for a gentler form of exercise to give it a try. Much to his dismay though, this studio was trying to out-do the competition with a rather bizarre partnership, namely, a goat farm from Yorkshire.

“I swear, telling you about that goat debacle was a mistake,” she says, slightly exasperated. “What was I supposed to do when they started chasing me? Freeze like a tree and allow myself to be poked to death by their wee little horns?”

“Hey, don't forget that I shared a deep, shameful secret in return,” he retorts. “I'll never be able to live down the thought of you knowing about that awful spray tan.”

“It was for your wedding!” she laughs. “I don't think it would be good for the groom to be paler than the bride's dress.”

He rolls his eyes and follows her onto the bus, shaking the umbrella to get the last bit of water off lest he cause a slipping hazard onboard. Patrick attempts to pull up an article on the iPad as they settle into their seats, but the screen remains blank despite his constant screen poking.

“Damn this thing,” he mutters. “Do you know what I did wrong? I'm trying to access an online article but nothing happens when I hit the House button.”

She giggles. “It's the Home button, and let me take a look at it.”

He hands the offending gadget over without a second thought. The bus slows to a crawl as they enter a heavily populated intersection, with cars, motorcyclists, and electric scooters jammed into two narrow lanes. Her fingers swiftly tap icons and adjust settings, but she moves too quickly for him to mentally note how to prevent this problem again.

“There,” she says triumphantly. The screen blinks alive once more and he marvels at her ability to solve any problem. It takes a great deal of restraint to not hug her.

“You're a lifesaver,” he says, choosing words over physical signs of gratitude.

“It's always nice to be needed,” she says sweetly. “One of my sisters has an iPad and frequently needs trouble-shooting, so I've become quite well-versed in Apple technology recently.”  
  
“I didn't know you had siblings locally.”

She bursts out laughing. “Oh no, it's one of the nuns from the hospital. I'm sorry, I keep forgetting that not everyone refers to them as such.

He laughs along with her. “I can tell you're very close to them though, based on everything I've heard about them. They might as well be blood relatives, right?”

“They are very dear to me,” she agrees happily. “Now, what was this article that you wanted to show me?”

He flips the iPad briefly and glances at the paper guide taped to the back. The words “Internet=Safari” are scribbled in Timothy's tell-tale handwriting. Shelagh giggles again but says nothing as he retrieves the article and waits for the page to load. As the title words appear, her brow knits together in a serious expression.

“The changing health of Thalidomide survivors?”

He grimaces as the bus accelerates abruptly. “I'm doing some research because of a patient. She's a remarkable woman, born during the peak time when Thalidomide was prescribed to her mother for morning sickness, but managed to live in relatively good health despite such catastrophic circumstances.”

Shelagh leans in to read the article. He fervently hopes that she can't feel his breathing abruptly stop as her wrist settles on his arm. “She must be well into her fifties by now,” she murmurs, awed by the information. “I know you can't go into specific details about her medical record, but can you give me a general synopsis about the possible secondary health conditions?”

“There's some of that in the article, but I can't believe how few studies have been done on Thalidomide survivors who reach adulthood. There were so many mothers and children affected and yet there is so little research being done on their lives now. How can we help them when we don't know where to start or what to expect?”

They sit uneasily in mutual silence, unsure of the right or appropriate words for the daunting situation. He briefly regrets introducing such a heavy topic to an otherwise jovial morning.

The conversation remains unfinished as the bus makes a final push to Poplar that morning. He didn't expect there was an answer that either of them could drum up that would satisfy him. Perhaps there never would be. But if there is anyone whose opinion he values on the matter, it's hers.

It's always her, he's come to realize, that he wants standing beside him when facing the world. 

*******

He is a fool.

An idiotic, addled loon who had something good in his life and managed to ruin that good thing with one action.

Autumn ends with a brittle whimper. Slimy tendrils of depression and grief loom over his head like those despair monsters in Timothy's Harry Potter books. The hope that skimmed the surface of his subconscious, transparent and tenuously formed like a soap bubble, is gone. Easily popped, easily dissipated, easily forgotten.

The books and articles on coping with grief flash in his mind again. They were chock full of all kinds of contradictory advice for a spousal loss. Should he remove all traces of the memory and start fresh? Or bottle up his feelings until he spontaneously combusted from unreleased tension? He wants to forget her, but how can he bury that instinctual knowledge that there was something special between them?The cliché of a serendipitous encounter between two lonely people grates at his stubborn, logical psyche.

Timothy refrains from peppering Patrick with more questions about Shelagh. The nurses at work are kind, not in a simpering, pitiful way, but show their support by handling crises without his intervention and keeping the pantry stocked with his favorite snacks. He thirsts, but nothing tastes refreshing or soothes him. An emptiness in his heart hungers for something he cannot name.

There is a steady influx of patients with all varieties of colds, sinus infections, and other winter maladies. The uptick is a mixed blessing. He has less time on an already tight schedule to spend with his son. Dark, half-moon circles settle under his eyes and linger as November comes to an end and the Christmas season kicks off.

He spends his evenings with cold cups of coffee or scalding hot baths. It's a vicious cycle, reheating the drink in the microwave until it's mouth-melting hot, and then getting lost in his thoughts long enough for the beverage to cool too much before he repeats the futile effort again. His skin is crab-red and nearly peeling when he emerges from the water, failing to feel clean after soaking in the boiling tub. Their electricity bill is notably high that month.

The seat next to him remains vacant since that day in October. The bus is rarely packed to the brim, but even if it were, a selfish desire prevents him from letting anyone take her seat. The place that brought him so much happiness has quickly become the site of his second heartbreak. He could listen to music or read a book to fill the conversation void that Shelagh left behind. But it is a more appropriate punishment to sit in silence instead. For a few weeks, he would look hopefully down the street and wish for her to appear on the spot, dashing toward the bus with a smile just for him. He really did love her, in every sense of the word, but now she was gone from his life.

And then, just as he approaches rock-bottom, something rather unexpected brings Shelagh back into his life.

A freezing wind pushes against him on an icy December morning. The street is slick with fresh ice from a storm the night before, and Patrick is glad he had enough foresight to wear heavy winter shoes with traction. The tell-tale ache in his arm throbs a steady warning of more cold weather to come.

Fortunately, he is not the first one at work this morning. Some other kind soul has already gotten the heater going and there's a fresh pot of coffee brewing, based on the blessed aroma trailing from down the hall. His gloves slide off easily in the warmth of the room and he is ready to thank whoever decided to come to work early.

He was not, however, expecting to see a rather elderly nun sitting in the staff tea room. Two clear blue eyes assess him silently as he staggers from her unexpected presence. Her piercing gaze reminds him of an ancient Seer who already knows his past, present and future. Thin blue veins course through her mottled hands as she grasps the cool handle of a steaming mug.

“Good, you're here,” Phyllis says crisply. She drapes a thick blanket over the stranger's shoulders and carefully tucks the corners under her arms. The scrutiny on her face, clear as a summer day, belies a dozen questions she's dying to ask him.

“This is Sister Monica Joan. She's here to see you, Doctor Turner.” Again, Patrick shrinks slightly under Phyllis' investigative stare.

“I come not for myself, but for someone ever so precious to myself and my Sisters.” Sister Monica Joan coughs delicately, clearing her throat before bringing the mug's warm contents to her mouth once more.

Patrick refills her half-empty mug once she finishes and pours a cup for himself. “I don't understand. Are you here about one of my patients?”

Sister Monica Joan shakes her head vehemently and nearly sends her coverlet to the ground. Phyllis catches the blanket as it slides from her shoulders and tucks it back tighter than before. Patrick is eternally grateful for Phyllis and her ability to take strange early morning occurrences in stride.

“But now no face divine contentment wears. 'Tis all blank sadness and continual tears.”

Patrick looks at Phyllis helplessly. The words sound old, not quite archaic, and Sister Monica Joan recites them with a cadence reminiscent of a mournful prayer. “What is she talking about?” he hisses at Phyllis.

Phyllis shrugs and nurses her own mug of tea. “She was here when I arrived this morning. Half-frozen, wearing just that habit and tunic in this kind of weather. I think she's one of the Nonnatuns based on that outfit.”

“The Order of Saint Raymond Nonnatus, if you please,” Sister Monica Joan says kindly. She sneezes twice into a handkerchief retrieved from an unseen pocket.

“You and Doctor Turner should talk. I'll be in the waiting area if you need me,” Phyllis states dryly. She turns to Patrick and whispers, “I've already called St. Raymond's. Someone is on their way to fetch her.” She nods politely to Sister Monica Joan and leaves before Patrick can protest.

“I would not contradict that woman's orders,” Sister Monica Joan warns lightly. “Not for all the cake in the kingdom.”

Patrick runs a tired hand through his hair. He will have to play the reluctant host until relief arrives. When he woke up this morning, nothing could have prepared him for this unusually complicated morning. On paper he slept for six hours, a decent amount for the average middle-aged man. But he knew better. Most of that time was spent tossing and fussing with his blankets in a futile attempt to rest. The day has barely begun and he is already exhausted.

“She cannot stop worrying. I see her sitting in the chapel with Sister Julienne, torn between her desires and what she thinks she cannot have.”

Patrick's heart stops. He knows that name. Recognition tickles at the back of his mind as an unbidden memory of Shelagh gushing about a woman who filled the role of both surrogate mother and supervisor in her life.

“Her soul is heavy with doubt. I fear regret will consume her if nothing is done soon.”

His mouth is suddenly dry. Taking a large swig from his coffee cup does nothing to alleviate the sandpapery texture of his tongue and lips.

A knock on his door startles them both. Barbara, still clad in her thick down jacket and woolen hat, pokes her head in. Patrick surmises she must have just arrived at work based on the heavy amount of layers dwarfing her slight frame.

“One of the Nonnatuns is here for her.”

“Show her in.” Patrick's chair scrapes against the carpet as he rises to meet his second uninvited guest of the morning.

Another nun rushes into the room, thanking Barbara profusely and quickly going to check on Sister Monica Joan. This nun is closer to his own age. He recognizes her from meetings at the Board of Health. Sister Julienne, that was her name. The head of the Order of Saint Raymond Nonnatus and Shelagh's supervisor at the hospital.

Realization comes crashing down around him.

“Thank you for looking after Sister Monica Joan. I am so sorry to have caused any trouble for you or your staff.” What was it with these nuns and their soul-piercing gazes, he wonders bleakly, as Sister Julienne appears to silently assess the man who essentially broke her surrogate daughter's heart.

“It's fine,” he stammers. He definitely had the worst luck in the world. Of course he would meet Shelagh's supervisor _and_ beloved mother figure under such circumstances.

Sister Julienne turns to Sister Monica Joan and carefully unties the blanket around her shoulders. Patrick overhears whispered phrases of worry mixed with exasperation between the two women.

“It's dreadfully cold this morning, what ever were you thinking?” she says tightly, handing over a coat and scarf.

Sister Monica Joan frowns and slowly puts her arms through the garment. As she ties the thick woolen muffler around her neck, she gives a final, fleeting look at Patrick before shuffling out the doorway.

“Is she...all right? Shelagh, I mean. Is it true what Sister Monica Joan said?”

Sister Julienne's lips purse into a thin, unreadable line.

“I do not comment on the personal lives of my staff.” She pauses, hesitating to divulge any further. But his crestfallen face gives her pause.

“I only know that she did not turn her back on you because of you.”

*********

Their reunion is punctuated by a stop at Starbucks for hot apple cider before heading home. The molten drink burns Patrick's tongue as he gulps it down, but strangely it doesn't bother him. Neither does the revelation of Timothy's secret excursion to find Shelagh. He might as well be walking on clouds, considering how light and burden-less he feels after that kiss in the community center kitchen.

As Shelagh doffs her boots and coat in the entryway, with Timothy chattering eagerly about showing her his comic book collection, Patrick mulls over how the evening turned out unprecedentedly well. Their easy, slightly flirtatious banter resumes without a hitch and it finally feels like his life is back on track again.

Timothy's sugar rush eventually peters off sometime before midnight. Patrick is thoroughly relieved that he goes to sleep without much argument and even remembers to brush his teeth without a reminder. Disappointment fills him as he closes Timothy's bedroom door and walks back to the living room. It's so late already, and he's taken up more of Shelagh's time than he probably should have, but he'll have to be a gentleman and bring up the topic of taking her home tonight.

He finds her curled up on the living room couch with the latest issue of _The Lancet_ lying open in her lap. A single finger is poised on an article about the use of Thalidomide for Crohn's disease, bookmarking the last page she read before falling asleep.

His heart swells at the sight of her. She looks so natural here, like the room was lacking something for a long time and finally had that missing piece found.

He doesn't have the courage to wake her now. A small part of him knows he should, for propriety's sake, but instinct overcomes that thought as he gently removes her glasses and sets a blanket over her sleeping form. He doesn't dare over-step his newly mended relationship and attempt to cuddle with her on the couch. There will be time for that later, he hopes.

Once upon a time, when he had decidedly less wrinkles on his face and fewer burdens to bear, he read that the pain of losing a loved one was akin to being stabbed in the heart with a sharp blade. It was a lifetime wound that never fully healed. Even if the mind forgot the agony that came with such a loss, the body would always remember. It was that kind of suffering that continuously flowed at a low ebb in his heart until someone came along and made his pain hurt a little less every day.

Now, Patrick lies alone in bed and dreams, a soundless black and white reel of his life with Marianne and Timothy before she was ill. His attempts to slow down and savor each memory are utterly futile, like holding sand with a sifter. Time seems to move slow and dark like molasses.

And in the nebulous path that dreams can take, for the first time since Marianne's death, his mind takes him out of the shadows and into the sun again. It hurts his eyes and he winces away from the burning ball of light in the sky, until a petal-soft hand reaches over to give him a silent squeeze of courage. Tentatively, like a scared animal, his gaze traces an upward path from hand to arm, to shoulder to neck, and finally to a smile that contains all the blaze and wonder of a future where grief doesn't consume every bit of his being. 

Kind blue eyes, framed by a pair of golden-rimmed glasses, steady his frantically racing pulse. After a moment—or an eternity, perhaps—he can hear the even echoing of two heartbeats steadily thrumming as one. Before he attempts to utter three words he longed to say for over a year of sitting next to this woman on a bus, she stands on her tiptoes and brushes his lips with a kiss that conveys everything that could be said and more.

His alarm manages to sound off three times before he hears the faintest noise coming through the mass of blankets over his head. Pale, wintry sunlight is beginning to peek through the curtains. He sits up slowly, licking his chapped lips and trying to recall what patients he has scheduled for today.

Sunlight. Patients. Work. The last twenty-four hours fly out of his head as panic sets in. Sunlight means that he's overslept by at least an hour and will need nothing short of a miracle to get Timothy ready for school and himself to work on time.

“Timothy! TIM!” he shouts, hastily throwing off his pajamas and rummaging around on the floor for a clean-ish smelling shirt. He sniffs a few, wrinkles his nose, and finally selects one that has the least amount of wrinkles. He mentally crosses items off his morning itinerary that cannot be done in the remaining time he has left while running to Timothy's room.

“Tim, we don't have time to stall, you need to--”

He stops abruptly. His mouth drops at the neatly made bed amidst the chaos of unfolded laundry, comic books, and school supplies. Most importantly, the bed is empty and devoid of its sole inhabitant.

The smell of freshly-brewing coffee drifts into the room. That's impossible, though. He wanders down the hall and wracks his brain trying to figure out what magic enabled the coffee-maker to start on its own. The shiny Keurig was an anniversary present from Marianne several years ago, but even if it could make regular coffee, cappuccinos, and lattes, it definitely did not have the psychic ability to start making his morning brew before he even reached the kitchen.

“So the X-Men's leader is Cyclops, not Captain America.”

“Yes.”

“But why is he called Cyclops? If he shoots lasers out of his eyes--”

“Concussive force beams.”

“Concussive force beams, okay. But he still has both eyes, so why is his superhero name based on a one-eyed monster from Greek mythology?”

“If you think that's bonkers, wait until I tell you about his time-traveling son.”

Timothy shoves another spoonful of cornflakes as Shelagh scribbles the information into a notebook. If he squints, Patrick can faintly make out question marks and scribbly notes written hastily in the margins.

“Morning, Dad!”

At least, he thinks that's what Timothy is saying. The words are slightly muffled by the enormous amount of milky cereal shoved in his son's mouth. There are so many things about this domestic scene that leave him at a loss for words. His son, a notoriously late riser, is already dressed with his school bag packed. And he seems not even the least perturbed to be eating breakfast and explaining comic book continuity with a woman he met days ago.

Shelagh hands him a fresh cup of coffee as he pours his own bowl of cereal. Her presence at his kitchen table is enough to make him grin like a loon. A mischievous look plays across her face as she tidies her beautifully mussed hair into place. She winks at him when Timothy bends over to pick up his dropped napkin.

He imagines countless mornings like this. The heavenly scents of roasting coffee beans and piping hot Earl Gray tea will perfume the kitchen on a regular basis. He'll rise early to make his own coffee and prepare her tea just the way she likes it—two spoonfuls of honey, no milk—before bringing the two hot mugs back to the bedroom, which is softly aglow with early morning light. Maybe the drinks will be forgotten because she'll pull him back into the mess of still-warm blankets and entangled. He'll fret about the taste of his mouth so early in the morning, but not a single complaint is heard when she presses her lips against his. Together they'll find another way other than caffeine to get the blood rushing through their veins.

He is safe, he is happy, he is in love with a woman who loves him in return.

It doesn't matter if he's at home, at work, or riding a bus. He knows, with absolutely certainty, that he will be happy anywhere as long as they are together.

Their eyes meet, and she takes his hand in hers underneath the scratched wooden table. A smile, full of promise and a future together, shatters that last bit of doubt he carried about falling in love with her.

“Eat quickly, or we'll be late for the bus.”

*********

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to ginchy for serving as this story's beta and most enthusiastic fan.


End file.
